So I go to the Exclusive Books sale. I browse around – with kids in tow of course – Mummy, can I buy a book
Which book do you want?
But you can’t read. Take something suitable.
Mummy help me choose.
When all I really want to do is take as many as my arms can hold to the nearest couch and listen carefully. Which ones call out?
The image goes up in a cloud of whine and nag, so I hurriedly ask for Pratchett. Never go wrong there. I find Thud. I’m already salivating. My eye then falls on a book. The cover is bleak. It has a picture of a young boy doing a handstand. The title – The Perfect Man. Author – Naeem Murr.
I open randomly. Find a bit of dialogue.
I’m impressed. I add it to my mangy – I couldn’t browse properly - pile. Then do the honourable sanity- saving -thing and pay attention to the whining. Choose the kiddies books, and hurry on out – I’m always in a hurry.
The book lies on my shelf while I wrestle with Shantaram. Eventually it beckons and I heed. And then I am lost. The writing is dark, like a shadowy raging river. I drown at times. Pull myself onto the rocks. Savour the light and then plunge headlong all over again.
I end it at 1 AM. But feel empty. As though I have been wandering in a desert . Complete with all the aching beauty and desolation.
I am saddened by the deaths, dysfunctionality. I am perturbed by how close he came to the ‘mark’. How real yet surreal it all was.
Are people really that dysfunctional? Why is ‘thinking’ so painful a process?
FOr a more comprehensive review, far removed from my whitterings :